11.

With the body removed and the forensic team packed up and gone, Brough and Miller had the whole house to go over.

“What am we looking for, exactly?” said Miller, following Brough up the stairs to the bedrooms.

“Clues, Miller. You might have heard of such things. Essential in our profession.”

He moved along the landing but Miller remained at the top of the stairs. “All right,” she said. “What’s this all in aid of?”

“Solving a murder. Three murders.”

“Not this. That,” she pointed at his head and her finger described a circle. “Your mardy face. You’ve been in a right old grump for days.”

“I have not!”

“You have! You’ve got a face like a bulldog’s arsehole.”

“I don’t think that’s the expression, Miller.”

“I don’t give a monkey’s toss. Something’s crawled up your bum and died. You can talk to me, you know.”

“As ever, Miller, your sensitivity is overwhelming. But let’s keep our minds on the job, shall we?”

He opened a door. The master bedroom. All floral prints and wicker.

“Ugh,” said Brough in the doorway.

“Bed’s not made,” said Miller, peering around him.

“Well, I think we can forgive a little slovenliness, Miller, since the woman’s been murdered.”

“Not what I mean,” Miller pushed past him. “Do you see? Only one side has been slept in. Where was the husband last night?”

“He works away.”

“Or plays away? Eh? Think about it.”

“Do I have to?”

“Hubby says he’s working away. Perfect alibi. Nips back, hangs the wife in the style of murders that are currently the fad. Leaves him free to be with his bit on the side.”

Miller looked exceedingly pleased with herself. Brough scowled.

“You should write shit novels for the internet, Miller. Clog up people’s kindles with your nonsense; I don’t want to hear it. We need to contact Mr Phillips. Contrary to your hypothesis, he may not be aware of his wife’s death.”

Miller pouted, crestfallen. “And the son? We need to tell him as well.”

Brough hummed in agreement. “I doubt Jason and that wanker Stevens will have tracked him down at the school. Someone will have to wait here in case he shows up.”

“As long as that someone’s not me,” said Miller. “I need to get home. Darren’s moving in tonight.”

“Moving in?” Brough shuddered at the thought. “Spare me the details, please.”

“To the flat, I mean. Makes sense. Financially. Silly to keep toothbrushes in two different places.”

“Well, if you put it like that. But are you sure, Mel?”

Miller frowned. “I know my track record with men is worse than the bubonic plague’s, but Darren’s a good one. The best. It makes sense to take our relationship to the next level.”

“You make it sound like a video game. Anyway, remember when I said we should keep our minds on the job?”

He tried another door.

“Poo,” Miller cried. “It stinks.”

Callum’s bedroom bore all the hallmarks of the teenager’s lair. Posters of footballers and pop starlets vied for prominence. A desk groaned under the weight of school books. A model aeroplane, dusty and neglected, hung from the ceiling. The floor was covered with discarded clothes and abandoned and forgotten dinner plates.

“Sweaty socks and mouldy pizza crusts,” Miller fanned her nose with her hand. “And I dread to think what else besides! Teenage boys! You must remember what that was like.”

“What?”

“I assume you were one once. A teenage boy.”

“What are you on about, Miller?”

“Of course, that was a long time ago,” she shrugged. “A long, long time ago.”

Brough glowered at her, Caesar betrayed by Brutus.

“Focus, Miller. Any clues - where might he go? After-school clubs? Friends’ names? Anything at all.”

“Well, I’m not looking under the bed,” said Miller. “You can go through the crusty tissues; I’ll have a look over here.”

She busied herself with Callum’s desk, his school books and set texts. Brough steeled himself and lifted a corner of the duvet.

“Well, well!” cried Miller, making him jump. “I don’t think he’s doing this for GCSE, do you?”

She held up a book so Brough could read the title.

“A History of the Occult in the Black Country...” Brough took it from her and thumbed through it. “Look, Miller. Those five-pointed stars.”

“That ain’t the half of it,” said Miller, pointing at the spine. “Look who wrote it.”

Brough turned the book over and read the author’s name. “Donald Phillips...”

“It’s him, isn’t it?” Miller grinned, smugly. “The husband!”

***

“This really is a most egregious mistake.”

Stevens folded his arms and looked across the table at the red-faced deputy head. “That’s what they all fucking say. Granted, most of them don’t use big words like - what was it, gregarious? - but the gist is the same.”

Alfred Abbott’s cheeks reddened. He folded his arms too but his posture lacked Stevens’s slouch.

Pattimore slid a sheet of paper toward the interviewee. “Do you recognise this?”

Abbott barely glanced at it. “It’s a sheet of paper. Like countless others.”

“Are you able to identify it?”

“White, A4. Standard photocopier fodder.”

Stevens grunted. “Smart arse.”

“Not the paper, Mr Abbott; what’s on it.”

“You really should be more precise in your questioning,” Abbott smirked. He pulled the paper toward him and glanced at the image on it. “It’s a five-pointed star. A pentagram or pentacle.”

The detectives looked at each other.

“Come across many of these in your line of work?” Stevens scoffed.

“Not on a daily basis, no.”

“But you were able to identify it right away,” said Pattimore.

“My dear sir, I can identify many things. It is one of the benefits of a good education.”

“And does that education involve dabbling in the occult?”

Abbott laughed. “Is that a serious question, Detective Constable?”

“This is a serious investigation,” said Stevens. “Two men are dead.”

“And a woman,” added Pattimore. “Designs like this were found at each scene.”

“And so you think, because I can put a name to it, I must be responsible. That’s something of a stretch, don’t you think?”

The detectives looked at each other again: an unspoken handing over of the reins. Stevens sat up.

“Where’d you go to school? Somewhere posh?”

“Hardly,” Abbott frowned. “As I told you previously, I went to Priory High. Except it was not known by that name back then.”

“The Grammar?”

Abbott let out a bitter laugh. “Sadly, alas, no. By the time I got there, the grammar school days were over. Actually, I was one of the first intake the year Dedley Grammar became The Dedley School - an astounding lack of imagination on the part of the people who name schools, I must say.”

“You seem - remorseful - is that the word?”

“Resentful, I think you’ll find. Do you know, I was! I was altogether convinced I would have passed the Eleven Plus examination and earned my place among the grammar school boys. I suppose I resented missing the chance to prove my mettle. I mean, after all, anyone can get into a comprehensive.”

He pronounced this last word with a visible grimace of distaste. He watched Pattimore make a note.

“But this is ancient history; what has any of this to do with your murder investigations?”

“We’ll get there,” said Stevens. “Hold your fucking horses.” He grinned to see the educator bristle at his bad language. “We’ll fucking get there all fucking right.”

Abbott’s lip curled. “Then I wish you would get a fucking move on.”

Stevens was gobsmacked. “A teacher! Swearing! Just wait until I tell the lads at playtime.”

“You work in the same school you went to,” Pattimore observed. “Bit weird, isn’t it?”

“How so? Perhaps at first. Some of the old masters were still there - and I had thought them ancient when I was their pupil! To have them as colleagues was a little strange, I admit. Those old grammar school buffers insisting I call them Roger or Martin. They would always be ‘Sir’ to me. They became my mentors. Got me through my first year. The school may have changed, they said, there may be girls here now, but there is no reason to let standards slip. We may be a comprehensive school now but there is no reason why we should not be the best damned comprehensive in the borough.”

Pattimore scribbled further notes. “So, Dedley Grammar became the Dedley School but now it’s called Priory High. When did that happen?”

“In 1989.”

“Why?” said Stevens.

Abbott looked downcast. “Despite our best efforts, the school was failing. The old grammar staff were all retired or dead or both. We were slipping in the league tables. The school was put into so-called special measures and rebranded as a ‘specialist Science college’. We got a new Science block out of it but little else.”

“But you stayed?” said Pattimore. “You didn’t move to a better job in a better school.”

“Young man, one does not abandon one’s preferred football team when it goes through a rocky patch. There is such a thing as loyalty.”

Pattimore nodded.

“So,” said Stevens. “What do you think about the school’s impending academy status? Does that piss you off?”

Abbott’s lip curled. “Academia has nothing to do with it.”

“You don’t sound too happy about that.”

“No one who cares a jot for education would. They don’t work. Well, not in the interests of the students.”

“In whose interests do they work, then?”

Abbott tapped the side of his nose. “Follow the money, Detective Constable.”

At that moment, Chief Inspector Wheeler burst in.

“Hoi, Bobbsy Twins! A word.” She burst out again.

“Excuse us.” Pattimore got to his feet. Stevens followed him to the corridor where Wheeler was waiting. She had been listening in and was far from happy.

“What the fuck is all this shit?” she gestured angrily at the interview room door. “I don’t want his fucking C.V. or a history of education in the fucking town. Pin him down on the fucking star thing.”

“I’m leading up to it,” said Pattimore.

“We got him to swear,” boasted Stevens. “He said fuck.”

“Then let’s throw the fucking key away. Think! Why would a man of his experience be against this academy business? Eh?”

“Um... he sees it as a decline in standards...” Pattimore grasped for ideas.

“And that might lead him to kill? Three people? I fucking doubt it. Think! He’s spent most of his life in that place, man and boy - although not necessarily in that fucking order.”

“His job!” Stevens cried. “He thinks he’s going to lose his job!”

“Hooray!” Wheeler applauded. “I’ve been boning up - don’t snigger! These academies are notorious for getting shot of their most senior staff.”

“Why?” said Pattimore.

“Like he said,” Wheeler nodded at the door, “Follow the money. Senior staff are expensive. Much cheaper to get somebody fresh out of training.”

“Is it enough?” said Pattimore. “Enough to turn him into a killer?”

“That’s what we have to establish,” said Wheeler. “Let’s hang on to the fucker for a bit. Check his whereabouts at the times of the murders. Seems to me that school has been his entire life. He just might resent being elbowed out of it - And what the fuck are you giggling at, you lanky wanker?”

Stevens wiped his eyes and pressed an arm against his aching ribs. “He said fuck.”

“Get him talking about the star,” Wheeler directed her instructions to Pattimore. “What can he tell us - might prove useful - Also, how does he know? He might let something slip.”

“Yes, Chief.”

“Give that lanky wanker a minute to pull himself together then get back in there. I’m warning you, Stevens: grow up or I’ll kick you so hard your bollocks will come out of your fucking nose.”

She strode away.

“Have you finished?” Pattimore sighed.

Tight-lipped, Stevens nodded. Then a snort escaped him and he was off again.

***

“I like what you’ve done with the place.” Brough was standing in Miller’s living room. “Looks like an explosion in a sports shop.”

“It’s Darren’s,” Miller called from the kitchen. “Coffee?”

“Mineral water, if you have it,” Brough called back.

“You can have tap and like it.” Miller joined him while the kettle boiled. She looked around at the heaps of tracksuits and exercise equipment. “It’s only temporary. He had to give up his lock-up. Damp, apparently.”

“Hm,” said Brough. Using his finger and thumb as pincers, he removed a jockstrap from the sofa so he could sit down. “Are you sure he’s not taking advantage of you, Mel?”

Miller hooted. “Every night and weekend mornings.” She laughed to see Brough shudder.

“You must be getting serious.”

Miller grinned. “We’m on the right track, yes. It’s nice to have somebody I can trust and who trusts me, you know? Darren’s a keeper - and I don’t mean up at the zoo. And I’d still got some money left after I sold my mom’s house, so...”

“Miller...” Brough growled. “What have you done?”

“It’s just a loan! He’ll pay it back; I know he will.”

Brough sighed and shook his head. “Oh, Miller. How much?”

“That’s none of your-”

“How much?”

“Ten.”

“Pounds.”

“Yes. Ten thousand of them.”

Brough was aghast. “Oh, Mel; you haven’t known him for five minutes. You won’t see that money again.”

“You don’t know that! You don’t know him like I do.” Tears sprang to Miller’s eyes. Brough was just jealous - she didn’t want to believe he might be right.

Brough gave up. “Just make the drinks, Miller and then try Donald Phillips again.”

“I’ve left oodles of messages.” Miller composed herself.

“Leave oodles more.”

“Yes, sir.” She withdrew to the kitchen. Brough’s phone rattled in his pocket. A video call was coming through. From Oscar.

“Hey!” the film star’s voice crackled. The image on screen froze and juddered. “David! Hope this is a good time - Can you see me?”

“Yes,” said Brough, keeping his voice low in case Miller was earwigging. “I thought we were doing this later.”

The famous lips pouted. “That’s just it, baby. Later’s no good for me. Got to do a whole bunch of reshoots. We’re behind schedule big time.”

Brough groaned; he guessed what was coming. “No,” he said.

“Afraid so, baby. I’m not going to make it over for your big day.”

“No!” Brough snapped. “Don’t say it!”

“But...” Oscar flashed his toothy grin and wiggled his eyebrows. “I do have an alternative...” He waved an envelope at his webcam. It filled the screen but was too out of focus for Brough to read.

“Is that...”

“I’ll get it couriered over right away, sweet cheeks. In plenty of time for your big day. Now, I gotta go.” He blew a kiss. “Bye, baby.”

The call disconnected. Brough became aware that Miller was standing in the doorway with a mug of tea and a glass of tap water. He blushed.

“Oscar?” she asked, affecting innocence. Brough nodded curtly and put his phone away. “All right, is he?”

“He’s...well, you know... busy.”

“That’s show business, I suppose.” She offered him the glass. “Must be hard.”

Brough crossed his legs.

“Being apart so much, I mean.” She perched on the arm of an armchair that was currently accommodating a huge, silver exercise ball and a tangle of skipping ropes. “At least my Darren’s within reach.”

“Well, his stuff is,” sneered Brough. “Keep trying to get Phillips.”

He got to his feet and handed back the glass of water. “Bathroom through here?”

“Take a left at the exercise bike and mind the rowing-machine.”

“Honestly, Miller...” Brough picked his way out of the room as though traversing a minefield. Miller poked her tongue out at his back.

“Honestly, sweet cheeks,” she grumbled.